Member Poem

Shame on me for speaking ill of the dead
though I occasionally make exceptions -
dictator’s sons,
bullies without bone
the opulent ones

But not you, who stood before cynics,
shrunken legs, criss-crossed blue,
face as pale and proud as the moon

They missed it but I saw,
loud as the dawn,
the upright grace on many painful morns
feet that tore through tarentallas

In the bare hours, before my mind breaks loose,
and weighs the world to come,
you creep in, smile like I remembered and say,
“I love you”

I love you too
and that’s the truth.